


Ashes in Your Wake

by thedropoutandthejunkie (elenajames)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Absent John Winchester, Alternate Universe, Angst, First Time, M/M, Pre-Series, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 19:31:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8222320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenajames/pseuds/thedropoutandthejunkie
Summary: It's an accident. That's what the fire chief says.





	

It’s an accident. That’s what the fire chief says. Bad wiring that claimed half the second floor and Mary Winchester’s life before it could be put out. Nobody believed John’s initial ramblings about her body being pinned to the ceiling, chalked it up to shock and smoke inhalation. 

 

Dean is scared and quiet, Sammy scared and crying as John holds his boys close to his side, watching in a daze as uniformed people tromp in and out of their house. Sam’s baby blanket and Dean’s hair reek of smoke, the breaths of it John takes it making the catch-rattle in his chest squeeze a little tighter before letting go. 

 

The baby blanket and onesie Sam is wearing are the only things of his to survive the fire. John throws them out when it proves impossible to wash the smoke smell out. 

 

* * *

 

“Look out for Sammy.” Those four simple words had dominated most of Dean’s life, from the time they’d hit the road after Mom’s death until now; he’s just not sure how much longer Dad can hold onto the sentiment. 

 

In the front of Dad’s journal is a faded article, paper worn so thin and ink so smudged it’s nearly illegible, but Dean has memorized every word on the page by now. He mulls them over in his head sometimes, as though feeling them through just once more will give him a little more understanding into what his life has become. 

 

Sam is twelve, quiet and stubborn. Dad is forty-something and hell-bent on revenge. Dean is . . . well. Dean is sixteen, tired and confused and more than a little scared. Not that he’d ever let on about that.

 

Still, Dean tenses a little when Sam closes his textbook and comes to settle at his side. He tells himself it’s not Sam’s proximity that bothers him; rather, it’s Dad’s intense gaze that he can feel like a laser, burning right through them both. Dean can’t say for sure what’s actually the truth. Either way, he tucks Sam into his side like always, even though his little brother is getting a bit big and old to want to be held like this. 

 

“I’ll be back. Sam, listen to your brother. Dean, watch out for Sam.” With that, Dad is gone, and Dean can afford to let some of the tension bleed from his muscles. 

 

“He thinks I’m a monster, doesn’t he?” Sam asks as soon as the rumble of the Impala is out of earshot, and it’s exactly the question Dean has been trying to not ask himself. 

 

One week and two states ago, Sam and Dad had gotten into an argument about moving. Nothing new, except for the way the book Dad was using for research had started to smoke and then gone up in flames. They might have blamed it on something in the book; after all, witchcraft was something Dad had only dabbled in, and you never knew what could be lingering on an old book like this. They might have, if it wasn’t the third time it had happened. The first had caught a bed on fire in some no-tell motel south of Tulsa, and they’d wound up skipping town to avoid paying for damages. The second nearly burned down Pastor Jim’s outbuilding. 

 

Once is an accident. Twice is coincidence. Three’s a pattern, and Dad’s always had a nose for patterns. 

 

“You’re not a monster, Sammy,” Dean says, surer of his words once Sam slumps tiredly against his side, quiet sobs wracking his little brother’s thin frame. He could practically choke on the guilt for having believed anything else. 

 

* * *

 

Dean keeps a close eye on Dad, who keeps a close eye on Sam, and there’s an unspoken acknowledgement that they’re both watching. Sam hovers closer to his brother, and - for once - Dad doesn’t comment when Dean would rather stay behind on a hunt. It reinforces the widening gap between Sam and Dad, the tired bridge of Dean stretching between them. 

 

Dad never says it outright, but he doesn’t have to. At some point, Dean knows his father has decided that Sam is less than human. He checks in more sporadically between hunts, and Dean can’t say for sure when the last time was that he’d heard Dad tell him to look out for Sam. He does it anyway, Sam tucked close to his chest in motel after dark motel, little brother skin stuck to his with sweat. After a while, he gets used to the heat that rolls off Sam’s body. 

 

* * *

 

“You said it was a demon. A  _ demon _ burned the house and a  _ demon _ killed Mom!” Dean knows he’s yelling, but he can’t stop. Confusion and anger well inside him and tear up his throat as he shouts at his father. Somewhere behind him, he can practically feel the wave of warmth that is Sam’s fear and rage and worry. 

 

“You’re right. It did. To get to Sam.” John’s words are clipped, cold but not as cold as the air behind Dean now, all of Sammy’s warmth yanked away from him. It makes him ache. 

 

Dean’s opening his mouth to argue, but the scent of smoke reaches him first. Flames lick around the corner from the living room, and all three men run. It’s stupid, stupidstupidstupid to run back upstairs but their duffel bags are packed and ready, just in case. It’s easy to snatch them up and bound back down the stairs. Sam’s white with fright and Dad is nowhere in to be found. Grabbing his little brother by the arm, Dean drags him out the back door. He breathes a sigh of relief to see the Impala is still parked, even as his chest aches to see Dad’s truck is gone. 

 

They leave the burning house in their rearview mirror, Dean’s hand fisted tight in Sam’s hair as Sam sobs his apologies into the fabric over Dean’s belly. 

 

* * *

 

 

Dean’s 17 passing himself off as 18 to keep the law and social services off their tail. It’s just a few months until his birthday, a few more months of laying low and working crap jobs until he’s officially an adult and can take guardianship of Sam. Sam’s quiet, so fucking quiet that Dean finds himself aching to hear his little brother’s voice. They’d managed to get Sam into school with forged signatures and squirrelled-away forms, and his grades are as good as ever. 

 

The brothers still share a bed, supposedly out of the necessity of living in a one-bedroom apartment, but mostly because neither of them can sleep without the other close by. On some level, Dean’s aware that it’s unhealthy, but nothing about their lives is, at this point. 

 

Dad hasn’t called in over a year, and his phone’s gone to voicemail for the last couple of months. Dean managed to get in contact with Pastor Jim and Bobby Singer, both of whom were wary but still picked up his calls. Bobby’d let them crash at his place for a while before Dean had managed to get them their tiny apartment. 

 

Sam hasn’t set anything on fire by accident in a couple of weeks. They’ve been working together and reigning in Sam’s temper, the wild flare of teenage emotions that brings his powers to the forefront. 

 

He’s studying when Dean gets home from work, soup bubbling in one of the many beat-up pans Bobby had gifted them. Part of Dean aches for how tired Sam looks, how worn he seems. Beads of sweat shine at his temples, bangs clinging to his forehead and baby curls stick to his nape. 

 

“You okay, kiddo?” Dean asks softly as he sets out bowls of soup for them both, half a loaf of bread and margarine on the table between them. Skinny shoulders rise and fall in a half shrug. All it takes is Dean touching one of those too-frail shoulders for Sam to fall apart. He latches onto Dean’s flannel, drawing the older brother close and pressing his face into the worn tee beneath as he sobs quietly. Sliding careful fingers into shaggy, damp hair, Dean just lets Sam cry it out. 

 

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Sam finally whispers hoarsely. “I’m sorry I made Dad leave, I’m sorry you’re stuck with me, I’m sorry I’m bad-” 

 

Dean’s little brother is lighter than he looks, like flames between Dean’s palms as he hoists the younger man up and drags him in. “Shut up, Sam. You didn’t do a damn thing wrong, none of this shit is your fault, okay? You ‘n me, we’re doin’ alright, and we’re gonna keep doin’ alright.” 

 

Shudders zip down Sam’s spine like Dean’s proximity is chilling him right to the bone, but he still clings tight. When Dean tips Sam’s chin up, he means to wipe his brother’s tears away. Instead, he finds himself cradling Sammy’s face and leaning in to press their lips together. Sam’s hot as a furnace, and that heat bleeds into Dean, running through him and right down to his cock. The first brush of Sam’s barely-teenage belly against Dean’s hard-on makes him gasp and pull away. Using all his boy-strength, Sam fights to keep Dean close, their breath ghosting over each other’s faces. 

 

“Dean.” It twists Dean up inside to hear the plea in his little brother’s voice. Gently, he unclenches Sam’s hands from his shirt, brushing his thumb over smooth knuckles. 

 

He shouldn’t, they can’t- “Not yet, Sammy. Okay? Not yet.” They’re both shaking as he kisses Sam’s forehead. “Eat your supper.” 

 

Stumbling down the short hall, Dean shuts and locks the bathroom door behind him. His cock is throbbing between his legs, fingers shaking while he tries to undo his fly. Dean jerks hard and fast, grunting as he spills into the toilet. There’s still a tremble in his hands as he washes them in the hottest water their shitty tank can produce, studiously avoiding looking at himself in the mirror. 

 

Sam’s still at the table, eating quietly with his eyes cast downward. Dean risks reaching out to ruffle the kid’s hair, and he gets the tiniest of smiles in return. 

 

Later, when they’re curled up in threadbare sheets together, Dean doesn’t say a word as Sam ruts against his thigh, coming hot and wet in his boxers with a tiny little whimper. 

 

* * *

 

A wrinkle creases Sam’s forehead as he stares at the candle in front of him. Slightly crooked, white teeth sink into the pink plush of his lip and Dean’s worried that he’s going to have an aneurism. Regardless, as he watches the tiniest flame sparks to life around the wick, curling it black as the brothers watch. 

 

“Good boy, Sammy.” The flame jumps and Sam’s cheeks turn pink. His nose is bleeding just a little, like it always does when he works with his power, and he dabs it away with the end of one of Dean’s worn handkerchiefs. 

 

It’s been a year since Sam’s last accident and eighteen months since their first kiss. Sam’s growing up, taller but skinny as ever; Dean likes the feel of thin hips in his hands, the look of long, lean muscle all along Sam’s lanky limbs. He still hasn’t given into the curl of want in his own belly, the desire to see Sam squirming on his dick or the way those pretty doe eyes would look as Dean fucks him rough and quick. They’ve touched and stroked, spilled into mouths and hands and all over the bed, but Dean doesn’t want to be selfish enough to steal the last of Sam’s little-boy-ness, despite all the younger’s protests. 

 

Sam’s fourteen-going-on-fifteen and Dean’s nineteen with the title of the Impala and his little brother to his name. He’s got a job at the mechanic shop down the street that pays better than the odd jobs he worked when they first moved here. Dean’s good with his hands and can sweet talk the customers like most of the guys in the shop can’t; it makes him a popular choice and the money has gone a long way to helping to improve their standard of living, especially with how Sam’s shot up like a weed in the last few months. 

 

It’s Winchester luck that brings everything crashing down around them. 

 

Whispers about who they are and where they’d come from had haunted the brothers since they were little; people in small towns talk - that’s one consistency they’d always had in life. This time, though, there’s a little more truth in the rumors spreading about Dean and his little brother and just what they get up to when they’re alone. Someone digs up an old article about the fire, and - before Dean knows it - one of the guys at work asks him if it was  _ really _ an accident. He gets home that night with bruised knuckles and no job. 

 

It’s early enough for Dean to drive down to the school to pick up Sam. His stomach sinks when the lone fire whistle sounds just before he gets there, and Dean finds himself pushing the car just a little faster. Smoke curls up from the school, blockades are already up on the street and Dean skids the Impala into a haphazard park job. A sea of parents he half-recognizes surrounds the sheriff and the principal. They’re forced to wait in jittery anxiety as kids are turned over to their guardians one at a time, making sure everyone is accounted for. 

 

Dean nearly loses it when the first set of parents is drawn aside by another officer and -after a moment - he can hear the mother start screaming. Two, three, four - he loses track of the losses as his heart beats faster, as he has to wait in a haze of panic until the sheriff calls his name, pushing a smoke-scented little brother towards him. Dean yanks Sam into his arms, feeling the tremors running under his little brother’s skin as he holds him tight. 

 

“I d-didn’t- Dean, I-” 

 

“Shut up, Sam. I know.” Dean doesn’t let Sam finish. He can’t. He can’t face the knowledge that it doesn’t matter if Sam was going to say he didn’t do it or just that he didn’t  _ mean _ to. 

 

“It’s alright, kiddo. Let’s go.” 

 

Sam crawls into Dean’s arms again that night, desperate to be close and - this time - Dean doesn’t say no. Soft skin is hot beneath his palms and lips, and the first press of his cock into Sam nearly makes Dean cry. There’s so much heat and so much Sam that Dean’s head is still spinning when Sam’s come is cooling between them and Dean’s is trickling out of Sam and onto Dean’s probing fingers. 

 

* * *

 

There’s no one at the Winchester residence when social services comes knocking to check on Sam, no one to pick up the phone when the superintendent calls to tell them about classes being moved. Movers come to take away the sparse furniture and the post office gets notice to forward all the mail for Sam and Dean Winchester to Singer Salvage in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. 

 

A handful of residents still remember the wayward brothers years later when their faces are splashed across the headlines, and more than one is silently pleased when the reports say the brothers are killed in a fiery helicopter crash. It seemed fitting, after everything the town had lost in the fire of ‘97. Sure, the fire chief ruled it an accident. That doesn’t mean anyone really believed it. 


End file.
